


See Through Me

by theheartfalls



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Prostitute!Niall, artist!zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:39:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartfalls/pseuds/theheartfalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You'd be surprised how much us artistic assholes can actually make, you know." he commented finally, looking at Niall. Actually, looking over Niall. </p>
<p>No more hint was necessary.</p>
<p>"Which way is your apartment?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	See Through Me

The L&M Arts gallery in Uptown New York City was one of the most prestigious modern art exhibits Zayn had ever had the pleasure of perusing. Wine glass in hand, he made his way between the sculptures and the paintings, looking at the detailed lines of a self portrait on one wall while simultaneously admiring the delicate features of a tiny ballerina figurine on the podium beside it.   
So many outstanding pieces on display, price tags showing their worth and credibility. Names he had known all his life and others he would spend the rest of the night googling for reference and technique, always looking to others to improve himself... He was surrounded by talent and inspiration and in the midst of it all, he was fairly certain he was drowning.

Between a Van Gogh-esque portray of a field and a detailed, life size, statue of a fallen angel, he stared blankly at his own work. Lines he had created and colors he had selected, splattered on a canvas, creating an image all their own. 

Something he had loved merely twenty seconds ago, he felt disgusted by as it hung on the wall. It was open to criticism, open for profit. He was raking in cash for the simple fact that his father had pull within the gallery. He was making more than enough to support himself now, his paintings selling at an extraordinary rate since they had been pasted across the walls and diminished for their hectic, haphazard style. 

His style. Disgraced and criticized for being unique to him. 

'He's a Malik. It has to be worth something.' 

He could hear the whispers, knew the stories. A credible art critic, his father's name was always flashing across the Art pages of every New York Times, his praises meaning life or death to artists all over the world. If he believed in Zayn's work, so would the rest of the society. 

He downed his wine, switching it out immediately as a waiter passed him and practically guzzled that one as well. 

He was disgusted. Mortified. His self-hatred was looming on overbearing, weighing heavy in the back of his mind as people passed his work and scoffed or sneered or ignored it completely. He was turning into a joke. A filthy rich, sell-out joke, made famous and wealthy by name alone, rather than actual talent. It was humiliating and if he didn't get another glass soon, he would rip the canvas apart with his bear hands. He knew it.

A small, delicately painted hand touched his arm and he looked away from the mockery of his life, down at his fiance. "You look livid. Go smoke a cigarette. Cool down." she instructed, ever the voice of reason when he didn't really want her to be. 

He glanced back at this piece in particular. "I painted that the night I proposed to you." he told her quietly. Her grip on his arm tightened and she steered him toward the front of the room, toward the door. She wasn't rough, but he didn't see a reason to fight her. He could fume in here, drowning himself in alcohol or outside, consumed by a cloud of smoke. Either way, he wasn't simply letting this go.

"Outside. Smoke it off. Come back in when you're less likely to make a fool out of yourself." she instructed, giving him a gentle push toward the door.

He couldn't help but let out an unattractive snort, handing her his glass and dropping a kiss to her forehead. "You're ever the loving and affectionate girlfriend I always knew you were." he told her sarcastically, not giving her the option to retort before turning his back on her.

Their's was not exactly a match made in heaven. 

The night air was biting and he regretted his lack of a jacket. A few other artists mingled around the front doors, smoking, chatting, criticizing each other. Their whole world was a never ending list of things they did or did not do wrong, ways they could improve, praise and defeat for their every action. Standing in the midst of it all, cigarette held tight between shaking fingers, Zayn started to wonder if he had chosen the right life for himself. 

When had art become his career, rather than his happiness?

"Hey blondie!" 

He looked up, half expecting Perrie to be coming outside at the sound of catcalls and wolf-whistles. Instead, he saw the blonde boy walking through their ranks, head tucked low and hands shoved deep inside his pockets. He had a cap pulled low over his eyes and his collar was turned up, shielding him from wind, but this sheltered, huddled look did nothing to protect him from the grabbing hands of drunk artists who were tired of being told how awful they were. 

"Come on, let's see that beautiful face." someone teased him, reaching out with the intention of knocking the hat clear off the poor boy's head. 

He dodged in time, but finally looked up, as if he was just realizing they were all there. There was a small half-smirk on his lips as he looked at the man in front of him. "You can't afford it." he assured him, pulling the hat lower.

His accent was Irish, Zayn knew. He watched from his place on the wall as the group seemed to circle him and the only metaphor he could find for the situation was vultures. Actual life consuming, flesh eating birds of prey, swooping down on their young, helpless victim. It was absolutely sickening to watch, but Zayn had to give this guy credit for not losing his wits to it.

"How much do you cost, princess?" one of them jeered, as if he had been challenged by his words. 

It was then that this smirking stranger caught Zayn's eye, looking at him as he bit his bottom lip, as if he were truly considering the answer to the question. "More than any gallery artist can afford." he decided finally and there was an outraged cry from the majority of the group.

Zayn smiled for the first time all night, dropping his half finished cigarette and pushing through the group toward the blonde boy. "I'd like to take that risk." he decided finally, figuring if these were the vultures, he could swoop in and save him. 

It was as if the realization of his presence was enough to cause the rest of them to take a step back. No one crossed a Malik. Not when it could possibly mean their entire career ending in the blink of an eye. 

Eyes still locked, Zayn slung an arm around his new distraction, leading him down the sidewalk, right back the way he come from. "Don't know where you're headed, but you're taking a detour." he told him once they were out of ear shot.

"I'm Niall," was the best response he got and, okay, Niall, fine. Also definitely Irish and definitely more fit up close then he had looked from the back of the group. It was a damn shame Zayn was engaged. It really was.

"Alright, Niall," Zayn said, picking up the hint to talk. "My name's Zayn, and I want to know what you're doing in the Uptown art district when you look like you'd be more at home in a gym." He dropped his arm as they turned the corner, slipping his hands in his pockets immediately.

Niall looked at him, the smirk returning as he mimicked Zayn's posture. His shoulders sagged a little as he walked, like he often sat slumped over and was left with terrible posture as a result. "I'm doing exactly what it looked like back there." he told him, his voice giving off a note of disinterest, as if this topic was boring to him. 

Zayn mulled over that statement, unable to really make heads or tails of it. "What it looked like was you were on the verge of an art orgy where you were the canvas and the paint was their-"

"Woah!" Niall interrupted, which caused Zayn to chuckle a little at the outright disgusted look on his face. "I've done a lot of sick things, mate, but that's a new one. Is that what you artsy types get up to in your free time?" he asked, nose wrinkled in disinterest. 

Zayn outright laughed then, shaking his head. "Only the tortured ones." he told him, because it was far too easy to tease him. 

Niall rolled his eyes at that, watching Zayn from the corner of his eye as they walked down the street. "I was looking for a pick up." he confessed finally, eyes finding their way to the pavement. 

Zayn wouldn't ever say it out loud, but he was shocked. Of all the things -football star, rich frat boy, maybe even a musician- a prostitute was the last thing he expected. "So you weren't joking back there?" he questioned finally, trying not to sound completely horrified by the revelation. 

"Don't sound so shocked." Niall retorted, the eye roll practically transferring into his voice. "NYU isn't exactly cheap, now is it?" he added bitterly, apparently insulted by what he had heard in Zayn's voice.

A smart prostitute. Really fucking brilliant, actually. 

Watching him, Zayn saw a whole other life flash before his eyes. College. A career. Working for the things he had. Albeit the job wasn't exactly conventional or safe, probably, but Niall earned everything he had. 

And what was Zayn but a pathetic low-life, using his father's name to get somewhere in a world that would never accept what he had to offer any other way? 

"You'd be surprised how much us artistic assholes can actually make, you know." he commented finally, looking at Niall. Actually, looking over Niall.   
No more hint was necessary.  
"Which way is your apartment?"   
~~

The apartment was on the top floor of one of the nicer apartment buildings in the area, leaving Niall feeling a little stunned and a little ill. Most of his pick ups were trashy, cheap, leaving him in motels or alleyways after a quick fuck or a blowjob. That's what he had become accustomed to, actually. 

But Zayn was... accommodating. He let Niall in, he didn't watch him like a hawk, he even took his coat for him. There was something strange about being respected. It wasn't exactly a common occurrence in Niall's life at this juncture, during this kind of job. 

He hadn't exactly chosen this life. Leaving home had been his only option. Getting away from Ireland and responsibilities and the assumption that he would do what he older brother had done; taken over their father's business, worked for the family, staying in a town he detested. He had seen no other choice but to leave to go as far as possible and never look back, even if he had been struggling to survive this way.

"Want a beer?" Zayn asked suddenly as he padded into the kitchen, leaving Niall standing awkwardly in his living room. 

"Sure." Niall replied, because why the hell not? It was easier drunk anyway.

His eyes scanned the walls, mostly covered in paintings and photos of a beautiful blonde girl. There were a few photos that looked like a family shoot, but those were few and far between. The rest were model shots of the blonde and works of art that Niall thought would be far more fitting in a museum or part of a gallery of their own. 

"You did these?" he asked when Zayn came back into the room, handing him an open bottle while already sipping on his own. 

"Shit, right?" he answered and Niall's eyes snapped toward him, wide with shock. "You can say it. They're fucked. Absolute nightmares. Especially that one." he said, gesturing to a piece hanging near the front door, red and blues and green intertwining to form a garden. Three colors, but they were portraying a world of their own. 

And Zayn thought they were nightmares.

"They're gorgeous." he told him decidedly, because maybe he was being paid for his body, but his opinions were still free.

He felt Zayn's eyes on him as he turned away, setting his beer in the coffee table before going over, eyes on the floor, the wall, his hands as he walked toward Zayn. He refused to look at him as he sank to his knees in front of him, his body switch to autopilot as he started to undo the belt on Zayn's trousers.

When his pants were a pool around his ankles, he finally risked a glance up. The darkness in Zayn's eyes made his entire body shiver. Beer still in hand, Zayn was simply watching him, waiting, eyes hooded and lust blown and... 

Niall took the base of Zayn's cock in his hand, trailing his tongue across the underside before folding his lips around the head and sucking lightly. Murmured curses went off above his head, only encouraging him as he swirled his tongue around the head, taking more of Zayn's length into his mouth an inch at a time, stopping sporadically to tease and suck until he felt fingers twist hard in his hair. 

He took all he could handle until his eyes watered and then he started moving his head back and forth, letting Zayn set the rhythm with the hand in his hair, letting himself be used, letting Zayn fuck into his mouth and trying not to gag. 

He was used to this though. This disregard for what he wanted. This urgency to get what they needed and taking it out on his body. 

Except this was different. Zayn was different. The fingers on his scalp were gentle, brushing rather than scratch, massaging instead of pulling. The pace was slow for the most part and careful after a moment, as if Zayn knew Niall was having trouble. He slowed down and, though he was using Niall's mouth to it's full extent, it was as if...

As if he was being careful with him. 

He was being kind. 

He didn't even finish, pulling Niall's mouth away from him far sooner then expected and Niall looked up at him in surprise. "Top or bottom?" he asked bluntly, shocking Niall further.

They never asked. They just took or commanded. 

"Whatever you want." he said, brain supplying him with the proper words, reminding him of what he was supposed to do here. What he was being paid for. 

He watched Zayn roll his eyes, slipping his pants off his feet and tossing them away from them both as he started to undo his shirt. "Which do you prefer?" he asked instead, choosing the one question Niall couldn't evade easily.

"Top." he said quietly, standing up shakily. He wasn't used to this. Choices. Options. Someone offering him something in return for once. 

"Strip down and go find the bed then." Zayn replied, nodding toward the hallway that must lead the the bedroom. 

Pulling his shirt over his head as he walked, Niall tossed it carelessly to the floor, removing every article of clothing before he even reached the bedroom door. It was like a trail of breadcrumbs, leading right to him. 

He didn't stop to admire the room or the size of the bed or the art on these walls, because he was barely standing there for a few seconds when a pair of hands grasped his hips tightly, pulling him flush against unfamiliar skin. 

"You see things, Niall," Zayn whispered against his neck, his warm breath making Niall's skin crawl slightly. "You recognize things that other people can't see." 

Niall turned to face him. "I see you." he admitted, reaching an arm around Zayn and pressing a hand against the small of his back, pulling him impossibly closer. "Even if you don't think you can be seen. I see right through you." 

Niall wasn't getting paid tonight, he knew. He couldn't take money for this. Couldn't accept payment as Zayn lay beneath him, spread out and breathless, letting Niall use him instead of the other way around. 

That didn't stop Zayn from slipping a few hundreds in his back pocket once he was dressed and on his way out again. 

That night Zayn painted in greens and grey and blues, swirled around a pit of black, flecks of gold and light shining through like sunshine.


End file.
